


October

by ancalime8301



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-10-11
Updated: 2003-10-11
Packaged: 2017-10-18 03:19:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancalime8301/pseuds/ancalime8301
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo enjoys an autumn day in the Shire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	October

**Author's Note:**

> Can be considered a sequel to my ficlet "Remembrance," but it stands perfectly well on its own.

He used to love autumn. It was the perfect time of year: summer's heat had dissipated, and winter's chill had not yet sunk its frozen fingers into the landscape. Mornings dawned crisp and clear, and the coaxing rays of sunlight would often draw him outdoors and off on an impromptu adventure to discover the hidden delights of the season. A late apple here, a handful of ripe nuts there, and the rare stand of mushrooms fueled his curiosity, driving his wandering far afield, but never so far that he couldn't return by suppertime.

The days he enjoyed the most began with a layer of fog hugging the ground, shrouding familiar landmarks in mystery. He would set out at sunrise, reveling in the invisibility afforded him by the masking fog, and sometimes he fancied himself an elf, passing through without ceremony to what lies beyond. With luck, he would reach a high point in the rolling hills just as the sun finished burning away the mist to reveal tawny fields and brilliantly coloured trees far as the eye could see, the smell of wood smoke drifting lazily over the scene, the sun shining brightly from a cloudless sky, and he could only conclude it was good to be alive. These days invariably ended with a mug of fresh, hot cider before a crackling fire, wrapped in a warm throw, and musing contentedly on the day's jaunt.

But all of that changed. No, that's not quite right . . . Autumn was still the same, still came at the same time each year, still brought the cooler weather and painted leaves. It was him who'd changed, him who could no longer enjoy it as he once did. Too much had happened, too much had been set into motion in that time of year for him to welcome the season as before.

Yet here he was, ambling aimlessly through field and meadow, absorbing the fragile beauty of the healing land. He'd been uneasy, restless, in the week since his latest turn, and part of him hoped a walk would calm his mind, as it used to. So he traded his small study for the expansive outdoors, the frenzy of writing for the peaceful day, and already he was glad he did. He needed the break. Rosie had been more than happy to have him out of the hole, not that she would admit it, but when she was in that cleaning mood, 'twas far better to disappear for a while. That was why Sam had picked today to see to a few of 'his trees' in Bywater. So he was free to wander as long as he liked without fear of worrying either of them. It could be as it used to be, at least for a time. No pain, no worries, just a hobbit going for a stroll.

He directed his wandering steps toward the trees bordering the town, where he'd so enjoyed traipsing in the past. It was not until he drew nearer to his goal that he remembered he'd first encounter the last remnants of the damage inflicted in his absence. He was almost afraid to look, but it was too late to avoid the lingering reminder. He forged ahead, braced to defend against any unwelcome memories stirred up from what had been the final blow to his spirit.

But the sight that met his wary eyes was not quite what he'd expected. Quivering saplings sprouted where sturdy trunks once stood, wildflowers and new grass softened scars from pits and refuse; nature had reclaimed its own despite the ruinous acts of men. It would take time to become as before, even with the aid of Galadriel's gift to Sam, but the wounds would fade until it was no longer apparent what had happened here. It was a wondrous sight to behold. Branches of scarlet and gold waved and the flowers bobbed their heads in greeting, the same cool breeze that stirred them into action ruffling his hair and toying with his cloak before sweeping on its way, rippling the long grass as it passed.

He continued on his way, stepping carefully so as not to uproot the new growth, and was soon under the eaves of the unaffected part of the forest. Here it was as he remembered: shade dappled with just enough sunlight to keep it from being gloomy, the floor carpeted with soft moss and old foliage, still brilliantly shaded even as it gradually became part of the earth it rested upon, and decorated with an ever-shifting kaleidoscope of filtered sunlight as the leaves and boughs above swayed in an ever-changing pattern. Always different, but ever the same. The silence of the forest was never truly silent; the twittering of birds, the flutter of wings, the rustling of small animals foraging in the tree litter measured a peaceful melody against the counterpoint of whispering leaves and creaking branches.

Finding his tree, he settled into his usual spot amidst the cradling roots and sighed as he let his head rest against the trunk and stared through the canopy to the cloudless blue beyond. He closed his eyes, allowing the tranquil atmosphere to soothe him, only opening his eyes when he felt a soft touch on his hand. The butterfly perched on his finger, its delicate wings slowing their frantic beat as it examined this strange thing it alighted upon. Growing disinterested, it fluttered away in search of sustaining nectar, and he soon lost sight of it as it danced amongst the leaves.

He might have fallen asleep, he could not be sure, he just knew that time passed as he remained there, blissfully unaware of anything but the life around him. As the afternoon waned, he finally roused and resigned himself to returning home. When he turned to go, he noted a patch of white out of the corner of his eye. A closer investigation revealed it to be a stand of mushrooms thriving in the shelter of a fallen oak. He crouched before them, cautiously prodding them until he determined they were of the edible variety. All were nicely-sized, perfectly formed, and for a moment he could not decide what to do. Leaving them alone was not an option -he *was* a hobbit, after all!- and while he knew Sam and Rosie would enjoy having some too, he had nothing in which to carry them. Reaching a decision, he plucked two and left the rest for another eager adventurer to discover... and perhaps he could make his way back here in a few days' time to liberate any survivors. Stowing one capped fungus in his pocket, he leisurely ate the other, taking his time in returning.

He let himself in the front gate as the sun began to set. He paused for a few moments, admiring the wash of deep hues that stained the sky in the sun's passing, and chewing the last bit of mushroom before venturing inside. The warmth of the entryway made him abruptly aware of how cold his face felt; from the wind, no doubt. But it was a good cold, an invigorating cold, that made him feel very *alive*, not like the other, deadly cold.

The smial was quiet, almost too quiet, as it muffled the sounds as the world outside made the transition from day to night. He hung his cloak on one of the free hooks, then proceeded down the hallway, following the sound of random thumps and the occasional exclamation to find Rosie. More precisely it was half of Rosie, the other half delving into the depths of a large closet at the end of the hall. Amused, he watched as linens made their way from a shelf to the floor, the half-concealed figure grunting with effort as she wedged herself in, reaching for the items evading her grasp in the seemingly endless space. Finally she began inching her way out, dragging her trophies with as she extricated herself from the dusty storage area. "May I be of help?" he inquired politely.

Rosie jumped in surprise at the unexpected voice. "Mercy!" she cried, putting a hand to her chest as she turned. "Send me t' an early grave, ye will, if ye keep doin' that."

"My humblest apologies, Lady Rose," he replied airily, bending in an exaggerated bow.

"Keep givin' me cheek an' ye'll see ye shouldna cross Rose Gamgee," she retorted, hands on her hips, though the smile on her face belied her words. "These here need t' go in the pile o'er there, if ye would," she directed, pointing across the hall to a heap of linen. She frowned as she realized the pile was barely discernable in the deepening dusk of the windowless hall, then sighed and fished in her apron pockets for the tinder and flint she'd kept on hand for such an occasion. Lighting the taper and replacing it in its holder on the wall, she critically eyed the remaining shelves and their hoards of laundry as he silently moved the indicated items. It appeared she had been gathering up every scrap of bedding: bed sheets, quilts, and blankets, and put it all here in front of the back door.

"Ye have enough linen here f' the entire town," she commented.

"So it seems," he agreed. "May I inquire why all of the linens are now on the floor?"

"Why, to wash 'em, o' course!"

He gave her a blank look. "Why?"

"So we can use them."

"They look fine to me," he asserted, not grasping her point.

Rosie shot him an incredulous stare. "Haven't ye ever washed 'em afore it gets cold enough t' use 'em?"

"No..." he replied hesitantly. "When I need one, I just find one and throw it on the bed."

"An' afore ye put it away?" she prodded.

"Sometimes," he shrugged. "If I got it dirty, I would certainly wash it."

He was greatly puzzled when Rosie burst out laughing, and stood there awkwardly, waiting for her to explain. "Menfolk!" she exclaimed, throwing up her hands in exasperation and turning back to the closet, pulling items out with more force than before. "So you mean" -the front stack fell to the floor- "to tell me" -plop- "that these" -her voice was muffled now as she again dug deep into the closet- "haven't been washed" -more linen piled next to her- "in *YEARS*?!" She reappeared on the last word and eyed him skeptically.

"It is possible," he admitted ruefully, then teased, "Bachelors don't think of these things."

"Nonsense," and she left it at that. The remaining contents of the closet were soon added to the towering heap.

"You mean to wash all that?" he asked doubtfully.

"No' by myself!" she countered. "I seem t' remember tha' two others live in this hole."

He didn't have time to make a saucy reply before she startled and said, "Oh! Forgive me! Ye're pro'ly hungry, and here I put ye t' work cartin' linen from one place t' another." She started down the hall toward the kitchen but abruptly stopped, as if realizing how grimy she was. "There's some o' that stew keepin' warm on th' stove; I trust ye can manage tha', hm? I'm in no shape t' go near the kitchen withou' washin' up."

"That's quite all right," he assured her. "I think I can do it without causing a catastrophe."

She smirked and disappeared into the bedroom, the poked her head back out and added, "Pa sen' over some early cider. Would ye stir it? It's hangin' o'er the fire." He nodded in assent; she disappeared again and closed the door behind her. The topmost linens took this opportunity to slide to the floor. He wasn't inclined to do anything about it, but then noticed one of the quilts now visible... a quilt he'd thought lost long ago.

Carefully pulling it from the heap, he examined it closely, remembering. Bilbo had given it to him when he'd been adopted, but it had more significance than just that. His uncle had gone scrounging through the cellars and closets of Brandy Hall, looking for his parents' old things. He'd found a number of them, and taken them with Old Rory's leave. As a surprise, he'd had squares of the fabric used to make a quilt, along with a few other squares he knew the tween would find meaningful. There was the piece of his mother's yellow summer dress... and there, the pocket from his father's favorite vest... He smiled sadly, the memories coming back vividly, and for a moment he was thankful. He'd been afraid they had been lost, burned from his memory permanently. But no, here they were, and stronger than ever.

He'd thought the quilt lost years ago, when he'd been unable to find it one year as the weather grew colder, but apparently it had simply been tucked away in a closet somewhere. He took it with him to the kitchen, fingering the well-worn fabrics thoughtfully, then laid it safely on the table while he did his business.

The stew smelled good, and he knew from a few days ago that it tasted at least as good as it smelled. He found a fork and speared a piece of meat, a few vegetables, several soft potatoes, and ate those, though he knew if Rose caught him eating out of the pot she'd have his hide. He just wasn't hungry enough to go to the bother of serving out a bowlful, with those nice mushrooms keeping him comfortably full and all.

Next he turned his attention to the cider. He did stir it as she'd asked, but deeply wanted to do a little more than that... Hearing footsteps, he paused, then heard the bathing room door shut. Ah, he had plenty of time, then. He retrieved a wooden mug, and into it carefully ladled a bit of the deep amber liquid. Sniffing it appreciatively, he replaced the ladle on its hook and retrieved the quilt.

He entered the front room and put down the mug and quilt long enough to stir up the fire and add more wood until it was crackling merrily. Then he sank into his armchair with a sigh, putting up his feet on the footstool and enjoying the warmth he could feel emanating from the small blaze. After a moment, he reverently laid the quilt over his lap, gently touching each precious square, memorizing the textures with his fingertips as he replayed the dear memories in his mind.

Long minutes passed as he was lost in recollection before he remembered the cider, cooling on the small table beside him. He rearranged himself in the chair, tucking his legs up so quilt would cover all, and settled back with the warm mug. It smelled just as he remembered it should, like an apple tree and cloves of ginger and autumn all in one inexpressible, cloying scent at once distinctive and universal. Mindful of its cooling temperature, he took the first hesitant sip, eager to taste it again but afraid it would fail to fulfill the expectation of memory. But he needn't have worried; the cider was exquisite, just as he remembered... and more. It recalled the events of the day, and as he continued to sip the rich liquid, other memories of the season surfaced, the myriad thoughts and emotions intertwining, joining into a feeling of contentment and peace.

Yes, this is the way life should be, *this* is what he'd endeavored to preserve. The innocence, the gaiety of his fellow hobbits as they went about their daily business; the shrieks of laughter as lads and lasses tumbled and tussled in the grass; the gossip of the women as they examined wares at market; the joyful atmosphere as hardworking hobbits harvested the crops, anticipating the inevitable party upon completion; the raising of ale mugs as the men toasted anything and everything, any excuse to consume just a bit more ale; and even the gaffers and gammers viewing anything new or different with suspicion and hostility; such is life in the Shire, and oh, would he miss it! But he knew leaving was his only choice. At least he still had some time, time to finish the story in the Book, to bask in the pleasures the Shire could offer, temporary though they were. Not every day would be like this day had been, he knew that full well, but the knowledge of what is to come would be enough. It had to be.

When he reached the bottom of the cup, he sighed in some disappointment, but was too comfortable to consider getting up for more. He returned it to the table and just sat, eyes closed, enjoying the moment of quiet, of peace.

As he drifted languidly into sleep, he concluded, it is good to be alive.


End file.
